


The Alpha Now

by ashurbadaktu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:50:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashurbadaktu/pseuds/ashurbadaktu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slightly different take on the end of first season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alpha Now

There’s blood on his hands.

Some of it is Derek’s and most of him is horrified about that, but there’s a part, a little part, that says this is his due, that says this was the deal, that a little blood is worth being grabbed from shadowy hands and slammed against walls and thrown through a burned out house. That part has plenty to say while the rest of him is silent in horror, too busy trying to work out what to do, what to say, how to deal with the fact that he’s just killed someone and their blood is on his hands and the ground and there’s some on his jacket and pants too that he’ll have to explain to his mother.

And that’s the problem, that’s the CRUX of it all. That there are two sides to him and he only wishes they were as simple as wolf and human, as Scott and the Beast, but it isn’t, and it’s not and it never was. There are two sides and those two sides are the difference between wanting power and loathing it, the two edges of the same sword he was handed without asking for it or even knowing what to do with it. But it’s been weeks and he’s been swinging, left and right, trying, and sometimes he’s not sure which side of the blade he’s on, which edge is cutting through the mess his life’s become. 

Because some of it is Derek’s but most of it is Peter’s, and he just killed someone with that sword, killed, dead, a heart slowly beating out its last in fits and starts and he wishes he hadn’t paid attention at work, wishes he didn’t know what burns do to a body or how fast blood can pump or how it feels when a heart skitters like that, how close it is to giving out even though the deed is already done. And that gives part of him a voice, that part screaming at him that this is his future if he chooses wrong, this is the sword, this is the life and the death and everything that he always thought he hated. But under the screaming, subtle and soft, whispering so low he has to strain to hear it, letting the rest go unheard, is the other part. 

The part that was tired of being on the bench, tired of being winded, tired of people like Jackson Whittemore pushing him around, tired of being told how useless and expensive he is, the part that got left behind by a father and the part that’s never felt like he was ever going to be good enough for anyone. That part says he can take, take this, take the sword and do whatever he wants with it. That part says that he can protect his mother and protect Stiles and Allison and protect everyone if he just holds on, holds on to the sword. A sword doesn’t weigh much, after all. Not once you’ve used it. Not once you’ve become accustomed to the weight. Then it’s just an extension of your arm, cold steel that won’t break or bend, that cuts through when you would have been helpless otherwise. 

And he knows he’s conceptualizing, and he knows that all of this is taking seconds, seconds, heartbeats, gushes of blood, eyes that are slowly dimming and that means that he only has so much time. Time to choose between grasping this new life and riding it for the rest of his days or letting it pass him by. 

He knows what he wanted, and he knows what he said, but in a moment of painful clarity, he also knows that the knowledge will never leave him. That the dark will always be full of terrible things. That ignorance is no longer an option and if he tries to turn his back on this world, all it’ll do is stab him in it eventually. Him, and who knows who else.

He’s not sure if that’s what makes the choice or if it’s the whispering darkness inside. He could look, could try and puzzle it out, but there’s nothing good there, nothing that won’t break him in two and make him even worse than this, worse than a boy who said he wanted to be human and chose instead to seize power he hardly understands let alone knows how to wield. All he knows is that the screaming has gone quiet inside his head, a wary silence, and that now he’s hearing things from outside. He’s hearing horrified gasps and feet shuffling in the leaves and the last death rattle of an alpha werewolf as red flaming eyes go dim and the body in front of him slumps. 

He turns finally and looks at Derek, who had been looking at his ripped up arm, a casualty of Scott’s haste. Derek is staring at him like he’s just been delivered his worst nightmare and his greatest wish all in one before Scott feels his chin lift in a subconscious demand that Derek answers by dropping his gaze to the ground. And he feels it, feels it in his chest somehow, a surge of RIGHTNESS after so much wrong, so much confusion and pain. He hates that he loves it, that this feels good, that there’s an odd relief here, that he’s made a choice and the sword is settled firmly at his hip as the power coils in his stomach like lust but so much MORE. He isn’t sure what he expects as he looks at Stiles. At Jackson. At Chris. And, finally, at Allison. 

It didn’t work, he says. And it’s true, for a given value of truth. It DIDN’T work, but not because the choice wasn’t there. 

But because it was.


End file.
